


areyouarealmonster's gotham prompt fills

by areyouarealmonster



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Jewish Bruce Wayne, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyouarealmonster/pseuds/areyouarealmonster
Summary: tumblr prompt fills for gotham. will mostly be focused on oswald, disability, and oswald/ed





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sophiacfandom sent: Oswald Cobblepot + suits

At first it’s thrift stores and suit jackets that hang on his shoulders, pants that are frayed at the cuffs, ugly ties that were someone’s unwanted and discarded birthday present. It’s shoes that pinch hard and wear out fast because of the pattern of his stride. 

 

Then it’s off the rack, money from his first job for Fish clenched tightly in his first. 

 

“Get yourself some new clothes, baby,” she told him, in that voice as thick as honey. “I need my umbrella boy to look good by my side.” 

 

It’s black and pinstriped and it fits well enough, fits better than clothes he’d pulled together from bins of someone else’s discarded wardrobe. It’s  _his_. 

 

His pride grows, his confidence grows, and with them his wardrobe. He switches from umbrella to silver-headed cane and back again, using the umbrella as his symbol because it reminds him of where he came from. It’s a part of his look, the one that he pulls together–purple and green and black and silver. 

 

He gets fancy shoes, orthopedic brogues, which he didn’t even know they made, but the insides of the soles doesn’t wear out as fast, and his hips hurt less with the torque of his walk from the cushion. 

 

Then it’s tailored suits, and not flinching at the hands that measure and pin him, because he’s learned not to twitch but it’s still his first instinct: that a hand touching will be pinching and biting if it’s not his mother’s. That soft touch is a myth from anyone but her, but he doesn’t flinch. 

 

The suits fit beautifully and they make him feel bigger than all his five foot six of bundled rage and loneliness. And if people still underestimate him in them, in this suits that make him feel on top of the world, that’s on their head. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bottomraypalmer sent: ed/os - first kiss (aka Fix What Gotham Broke)

The first time Ed thinks Oswald is going to kiss him is after Oswald wins the mayoral campaign. There are tears in his eyes, and the way he looks wordlessly from Ed back to the TV makes Ed’s heart lurch. He repeats the riddle, even, that Ed had tried to tell him, but he doesn’t kiss Ed, so Ed chalks it up to emotion over winning and puts it aside.

 

Well, he bricks it up in his heart, because he told Oswald, he  _told him,_  that love, for men like them, is weakness. So he builds a wall around it, to hold it close but keep it separate from what he has to be to be Oswald’s right-hand man. 

 

__I can’t be bought,_ but I can be stolen with one glance._

 

The second time is after Butch’s hands close over his throat, after he thinks maybe he misjudged and it’s the end for him. He’s dead for a second there, and all he can think is at least he protected Oswald, at least Butch’s betraying ass is  _out_ , for good. At least he can hope Oswald chooses good people to be by his side. 

 

And then he wakes up to Oswald’s hands on his face, one supporting the back of his head and the other cupping his cheek. He opens his eyes to Oswald’s relieved smile, and he thinks that maybe this will be the moment–a kiss in relief. 

 

But the moment passes, Oswald helps him up and moves away, and Ed tosses this feeling behind the brick wall. A fluke, a mistake, the fluttering of his heart means nothing. 

 

__I’m worthless to one,_ but priceless to two.  _What am I?__

 

And then he’s on Oswald’s couch, wrapped in Oswald’s dressing gown. His throat hurts, a mean bruise already formed from Butch’s large fingers wrapped tight around it. Oswald makes him tea, sits next to him, and looks at him with concern in those gray-green eyes. 

 

So Ed’s mouth runs away from him, because it’s dark and it’s quiet and the only two people in the world are him and Oswald, and he realizes that’s all he  _wants_. “I hope you know, Oswald, I would do anything for you,” he says. “You can always count on me,” he says. 

 

Finally, Oswald, eyes bright, leans in and kisses him, messy and hot, their teeth clacking together until they find a rhythm. And as Oswald pulls Ed down on top of him, the two of them only barely fitting on the couch, flinging pillows out of their way, Ed tears down that brick wall and lets himself…

 

_Love._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jewishraypalmer sent: hmm how about ed/os and helping each other w their disabilities (aka ed helping soothe os’s leg an os helping soothe ed’s mind :) ily!)

Oswald turns his cane into a fashion statement, his umbrella into his image, his limp into his  _name_.  **Penguin**. So, nobody asks, because they figure it’s just a limp, just part of the whole picture that makes up Oswald Cobblepot. And if they asked, well, he’d probably kill them. His legs are always tight, though, always aching, even though he’s gotten very good at hiding the pain. 

 

He can’t hide it from Ed, not after they start spending all their time together, not after they start sleeping together. Even before they got together, Ed had watched Oswald like a hawk, those piercing eyes always searching, always collecting information, always picking up on the smallest hints. 

 

Like how Oswald’s limp always got worse after he ran after something, got better after he took a bath, got worse again after standing for too long. 

 

Like how Oswald would wince as he wrapped his legs around Ed’s waist, but mask it in a gasp, in a moan. Like how his muscles would twitch and spasm when Ed ran long fingers up the bare skin of his thigh and around his hip, and then choke out a laugh in an attempt to hide it. 

 

Ed knows, though, and when they lie together in bed–on the nights they’re not fighting, on the nights neither of them is bleeding or injured, on the nights they’re not frantically trying to steal enough time together with rushed kisses and grasping hands–Ed will run his hands down Oswald’s legs, pushing with precise fingertips into the cords and knots that cause his hips and thighs to ache. 

 

And Oswald knows he’s got a tenuous grasp on what the  _hacks_ at Arkham refer to as “sanity,” but he tries to keep hold of Ed’s, too, along with his own. That both is and is not what makes them who they are–they’re rotten to the core, sanity or not, and all they can do is hold onto each other and try to help keep each other’s head above the water. 

 

So when Ed goes off the rails, it’s Oswald who has to pull himself together enough to drag Ed back, and vice versa. 

 

When Ed goes off the rails, it’s Oswald who drags him back, kicking and screaming, fighting against both Ed and the pain in the torque of his legs. It’s Oswald who brings him back down, who stops the constant spinning of Ed’s brilliant and overworked mind. 

 

Sometimes Oswald stops Ed with yelling, sometimes with fighting, sometimes with knives and guns and fists, sometimes with furious kisses and throwing each other against walls. Sometimes it’s bruises and little cuts that sting and burn. 

 

And sometimes it’s slow and building, anger and passion all tied together, a vicious cycle that neither of them can quite escape. It’s bites that turn into moans, fingernails digging into skin and leaving blood in their wake. It’s slow and simmering; like a fire burning under layers of leaves in the forest, burning off the debris, burning away the anger–without spreading, without exploding into uncontrollable rage. 

 

It ends, usually, right back where they started, with Ed massaging circles into Oswald’s legs, whispering apologies against his scarred, pale skin. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bottomraypalmer sent: oswald + family

Oswald always thought he knew it all, knew everything he needed to about his family. When he finds his father, though, he finds it almost comforting to learn that the darkness inside him runs through his veins alongside his blood cells.

 

His mother was too good, and he needed to protect her from the black pit growing in his chest. If he could do it all again, he would send her away. He would break off the part of himself that couldn’t bear to separate from her–he would save her from him, from the fate that he unwillingly led her into.

 

But his father, from the little time Oswald got to spend with him, understood that darkness. He would have understood that Oswald needed to kill Grace, to feed her awful children to her before killing her. He would have understood the blood on the table, on the carpet, on Oswald’s face.

 

Grace was rotten, and maybe that’s what drew his father to her. Oswald can feel the rot growing bigger inside him day by day, waning only occasionally, but then feeding and spreading.

 

And he’s all alone, now. Family: the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally, the only people who ever did–he has none of that now. All he can do is surround himself with people who he doesn’t trust, people he doesn’t love.

 

People he could love. People he could make his family. But this is Gotham, and everyone serves themselves. Including–maybe especially–Oswald.

 

He  _wants_  family. He wants to surround himself with the people he wants to love: Barbara, Jim,  _Ed_. But they’ll all betray him, again and again, and he has to protect himself. He has to keep his head above the rising tide of the darkness, before it sucks him under and chews him up and spits him out.

 

So his family is himself, for now. And that’s okay, because he can do this on his own. He’s strong and he’s smart and he’s vicious, and he doesn’t need anyone, not ever. 

 

It’s okay, though, if sometimes he wishes for more. Right? 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous sent: Babs & Tabs?

Tabitha doesn’t like playing second fiddle to that fucking insincere, boring detective. Everyone’s got their panties in a knot over Jim fucking Gordon, right? 

 

What a joke. 

 

No backbone, no  _fun_. What does she see in him, anyway? Even Penguin falls all over himself trying to help out the good detective, and for what? 

 

Sure, he’s hot, if you get past that toothy fake smile, the stupid haircut, the boring conversation. He looks good in a suit, so what? 

 

So Barbara can’t get over that  _fucking detective_ , and Tabitha has to find other things to fill her time. Butch, for instance. 

 

But still, she doesn’t love him. Still, she is pulled back to Barbara. A wheel, ever turning, ever spinning. Every time she loops around, she finds herself pulled back to this magnetic, beautiful, dangerous woman. 

 

Of course, Tabitha knows she is one of those as well–a magnetic, beautiful, dangerous woman–and she knows what affect she has on people. She knows how to use them, and she knows that Barbara, at times, uses her. 

 

Uses everyone around her. 

 

She doesn’t care, and she thinks this might be how the men she has wrapped around her finger feel. They know, maybe, and they just don’t care. 

 

Tabitha doesn’t care, if it means she gets to be with Barbara. If it means she gets pulled in on these wild plans, these schemes. If she gets to watch Barbara’s eyes go wide with excitement and rage. 

 

She chooses this. This always-on-the-edge, never Barbara’s first choice, because what else is there. This is her choice. 

 

Right?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sophiacfandom asked: Oswald + ableism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning for strong ableist language

He was born like this. His legs splayed, one slightly longer than the other. And, as everyone knows, kids are  _cruel_. Sticks and stones may break his bones, but words still bite and burn. 

 

As he grows, he learns to harden against their words. “This is who I am,” he says. He tries to internalize it. 

 

There are many things he probably could do with this life, but this is Gotham, and nothing sounds as enticing as the criminal underworld. And if the criminal underworld underestimates him for his limp, for the set of his legs, all the better. 

 

If they can’t see past that,  _good_. He learns to use it. They underestimate him at every turn, their own biases turned sour in their mouths. Well, he’ll turn them sour. He’ll turn each and every one of them inside out. 

 

They laugh at him, they call him names, and he takes all of it and turns it into ammunition. They call him ‘Penguin’ and he takes it, turns it, makes it his own. He wears it like a badge of honor, instead of the biting joke they all think it is. 

 

He embroiders umbrellas into his cuffs and commissions a silver penguin head (with a concealed dagger, of course) for his cane. He’s an umbrella boy? He’s a  _penguin_? 

 

You’re damn right he is. Don’t you dare forget it. 

 

Because they won’t let him forget, and so he won’t let them. in turn, forget as he destroys them one by one. 

 

And they still,  _still,_  after everything, still underestimate him. 

 

They see a limp. They see a cane. They see a  _broken man_ , a  _lame duck_ , a  _gimp_. They don’t see  _him_. So he rips them apart with his bare hands, because he’s not a little bird, he’s not soft or weak or pathetic or any of the other words they spit at him. 

 

He’s Oswald Cobblepot, and woe to those who underestimate him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr [here](http://jewishlorca.tumblr.com/post/169334771884/oswald-ableism)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> binahlaurellance asked: Ed + books?

There are shelves and shelves in Oswald’s mansion, walls upon walls. Sometimes Ed will wander through, running his fingers along the spines. He usually does this in the early mornings, when it’s quiet, when the sunlight is just starting to filter hazily in through the old, foggy windows. He acts like he’s not waiting for Oswald to wake up, to start the day, but he is. 

 

He’s always waiting for Oswald. Waiting on Oswald for…something. He’s not sure what. For the other shoe to drop, maybe. 

 

But the books. 

 

There are the classics, of course: Shakespeare and Faulkner and Bronte and Homer. Textbooks, wildly out of date and full of now-incorrect information. Thin volumes without text on the spine that might be diaries, or obscure texts, or nothing very interesting at all. 

 

Oswald said he can borrow any book, can take any book, because Oswald is generous to the people he likes. And he  _likes_  Ed. Ed can’t really figure out in what way, he’s never been good at reading people, but he can read that he’s maybe the most important person in Oswald’s life and it’s….

 

Strange.

 

Good, definitely good. But strange nonetheless. 

 

Ed is who he is, and he’s not the best at self-awareness, but he’s got enough of it to know that he’s tolerated at the best of times and loathed at the rest. So it’s weird, being important to someone, especially to someone like Oswald. 

 

Larger-than-life, powerful, brilliant. 

 

Ed is brilliant, too, and he’s overwhelmed sometimes that Oswald can keep up with him, and he thinks the feeling might be mutual. That Oswald doesn’t have to catch him up, that Ed can follow his train of thought easily and clearly. 

 

The books, though. They smell musty and welcoming, like the rest of Oswald’s mansion. They smell like home, like the rest of Oswald’s mansion. 

 

Ed runs his fingers along the spines as he hears Oswald’s heavy limp down the stairs, and he smiles and thinks:  _home_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr [here](http://jewishoswaldcobblepot.tumblr.com/post/169638618959/ed-books)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stungunmilly2 sent: Bruce's bar mitzah would probably be sometime during the early series. What do you think it was like? Alfred must be very proud.

It was supposed to be a big event. His whole school was invited, initially. That was before, though. 

 

He’s been in Hebrew school since he could read, been in individual classes with a teacher for the last few months, learning his parshah, his Torah portion. 

 

And then, well. Everyone’s heard the story: a demand, a shot, another shot, the clink of pearls on concrete. Everyone knows.

 

Shiva, then. His congregation bringing food and prayers and well-wishes that clinked against him like pearls on concrete.  _Bounce, bounce, roll away._

 

He shows up to class the next week. His teacher tries to get him to go home: “You need more time,” she says. 

 

He refuses, and she relents. 

 

So he studies. He doesn’t go to day school, just Hebrew. Just studies his parshah until he doesn’t need the color coding, until he doesn’t need the chanting notations, until he doesn’t need the vowels. 

 

His parents wanted this for him, wanted him to grow up with Jewish values, with a Jewish heart, with Jewish community. This, and his training with Alfred–for what, neither of them are still entirely sure–are all that matter, right now. 

 

The day approaches, and Bruce meets with his Rabbi, writes a D’var Torah, although he’s not sure how. Alfred helps, his nose buried in books, trying to figure out how to help Bruce say what he’s trying to say, trying to figure out what all of this  _means_. 

 

He doesn’t understand, not fully, but explaining things to him helps Bruce understand it better, and Alfred says that’s all he wants. 

 

The day dawns, and Bruce stands on the bimah to a nearly empty synagogue. His class was uninvited, the date wiped from the calendar, because the only people Bruce wants to see, looking out over his congregation, are his parents. 

 

But they’re not there. The only people there are the early morning crowd, old and tired and familiar. And Alfred, of course. 

 

He chants from the Torah, voice only slightly cracking at the higher parts, then follows it with the Haftarah. He mentions his parents only once in his D’var Torah, and afterwards he can’t remember what he said, even with the words swimming in front of him. The room had faded away, and he was left with only a slight buzzing. 

 

And, after, after the clergy congratulates him, gives him his gift–an embossed copy of the Tanakh–all that he is left with is Alfred gathering him into a tight hug. 

 

“I’m so proud of you, Master Bruce.” 

 

Bruce cries, body shaking so hard he thinks it might shatter, and the pieces might fall to the ground with a  _clink, clink_. 

 

He’s a man now, a Jewish adult, but he feels like he already was. He feels like it should be a turning point, a new day, but that new day already happened. 

 

As he steps out into the world, an adult in the eyes of the Jewish tradition, he hopes that the next new day brings peace. But with the buzzing in his chest, rattling his heart, restless and ever-present, he’s not sure he’ll ever know peace. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I watched the s4 scene with Sofia massaging Oswald's ankle and had to write a thing. Mentions of Os/Victor Z and Os/Ed but nothing concrete. Chronic pain ahead.

Oswald hides it until he can’t anymore. His ankle, that is. It takes the brunt of the stinging pain. The rest of it shoots up his leg, settles as an ache into his thigh, his hip. 

 

He kicks people out when the pain gets too much and he lets himself wince, lets his mouth screw up in agony. Most people listen, because most people run when he screams at them to get out. Most people are scared of the knife he keeps in the head of his cane, of the shrill of his voice that hints when he’s about to lose his head, of the guns in the holsters that Victor Zsasz wears. 

 

Baths are a balm; there’s a reason he takes so many, filled to the brim with epsom salts and sweet scents, his fingers digging into his tight muscles to release some of the tension, to float away some of the pain. 

 

Nothing,  _nothing_  compares to touch, though. He gets massages–hired in, not at a parlor–when he can, and a good, hard, fucking from whoever’s around and willing (usually Victor Zsasz) helps, too. 

 

None of it feels as tender as how his mother used to massage his legs. The massages are impersonal, professional. Zsasz, or whoever else he coaxes between his legs, isn’t tender. Isn’t even for his legs, really, just for the sweet ache that replaces the stinging for a while after sex. 

 

So when Sofia–that witch who sings like his mother and steals her recipes, too–caresses his ankle, it burns like the memory of home. He lets his guard down, screws up his face, lets his eyes water, because she feels like the flickering Shabbat candles he hasn’t lit since his mother died. 

 

That sense of peace washes over him as Sophia gently massages his sore, red, swollen ankle, and he hates himself keenly and acutely because he knows he can’t trust her, and he’s letting her in. He watches her manipulate him, sees it so sharply, and he lets his guard down anyway. 

 

Wouldn’t it be nice, if it were true? All he wants is for it to be true. To have someone who cares for him, without any stipulations. To be able to trust someone, with all of him. 

 

After Ed, he’s not sure he can. Well, he’s not entirely sure he doesn’t still trust Ed, that he wouldn’t do anything for Ed. Who is he kidding? Of course he would. 

 

He’d rather not, but his heart isn’t letting him have a choice. So, is it a bad idea to let Sofia in? To let her touch him like this, like a mother to her hurting son? Yes, of course it is. 

 

But the pressure of her fingers and her will ache so beautifully, and he lets her in. 

 

He lets her in, and he lets her destroy him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr [here](http://jewishoswaldcobblepot.tumblr.com/post/170370192214/oswald-hides-it-until-he-cant-anymore-his-ankle)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lattelaurel asked: babs and tabs + first time at pride

Pride in Gotham is an  _event_. It’s a  _fucking holiday_. Queers run the city, and you don’t want to, say, ruin the Penguin’s favorite holiday. You don’t want to ruin Pride, not when the biggest and the baddest names in Gotham are taking to the streets in rainbows, still armed to the teeth. 

 

Barbara hasn’t been able to attend since coming to Gotham. The first Pride she was in town for, she was still dating Jim, still not open about her sexuality. Second Pride she was in Arkham. Third, she was a bit, well, dead. 

 

Finally, she’s able to go, and she almost doesn’t. She and Tabitha are still at odds, even if they’re working together again, and plus, Victor Zsasz just blew up her damn business. He’ll be there, of course–at Pride. He’s one of the ones who will be armed to the teeth, and she’d rather not have to deal with him gloating. Even if, technically, they’re both working with–not FOR, Barbara insists–Sofia Falcone now. 

 

But Tabitha brings it up, casually, in conversation, and Selina is excited to go. Barbara finds herself roped in, against her better judgement. As much as she snarks at her girls, she does enjoy spending time with them. She would never admit it, but she does love Tabby. Even if Tabby still loves Butch. 

 

Even if Tabby goes down to the Narrows every few days, trying to get Butch to come back to her. She still comes back to Barbara, and that’s….something. At least. 

 

Barbara never said she was a paragon of healthy relationships, anyway. 

 

Not that Tabitha kisses her anymore. 

 

So Barbara lets herself be dragged to Pride, wearing her shiny silver suit and a rainbow pin on her jaunty bowler hat that she definitely didn’t get the idea for from  _Nygma._

 

They lose Selina in the first ten minutes, but Barbara’s not worried. The girl will find her way back to them if she wants. In the meantime, Barbara just tries to avoid all the annoying  _men_  who she’s not “officially” fighting with–Zsasz and Nygma mostly, since Penguin is still in Arkham–and focus on spending time with Tabitha. It’s so rare, these days, when they used to spend all their waking hours together. 

 

And sleeping ones, too. 

 

Barbara misses sleeping with Tabitha. Oh, the sex, sure, but also just sleeping next to the woman. She misses curling up around her and the plethora of whips and chains and and toys scattered in the bed. 

 

She tries not to think about it and just enjoy herself but it creeps in, sours the celebration. 

 

And later that night, when they’re both too drunk to remember that they’ve fallen apart, when nothing matters but lips and hands and skin pressed together, Barbara lets herself wish for more. She lets herself be bitter for what she’s lost, even though it’s right next to her, in her arms, in her bed. 

 

She lets herself admit that she’s still in love with Tabitha. Even if she won’t cop to it in the morning, when she wakes up with a spectacular hangover and rainbow glitter stuck to her skin. 

 

_But maybe_ , that voice whispers to her before she drowns it out with a glug of the whiskey in her bedside drawer,  _next year will be different._

 

_Maybe,_  the voice says, as she gets out of bed and leaves Tabitha behind,  _next year she’ll be yours for good again_. 


	11. corruption; light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> babsntabs, post 4x18

Tabi doesn’t deserve this, she knows it. Something has gone wrong with Barbara, has been wrong with Barbara since…

 

Okay, Barbara’s never been really  **stable**. But that’s why Tabi loved her, once upon a time. Liked her? Lusted after her? Wanted her? Who knows. 

 

That was all part of the fun, really. Tabi misses the  _fun_. Now it’s all glowing lights and vaults and this fucking Girl Gang of Shadows and Tabi isn’t welcome.

 

She doesn’t like not being welcome. 

 

Especially when she didn’t do anything to deserve this. Okay, maybe in the past, but not now. Not about this. 

 

She got her ass kicked, too, which infuriates her. So they’re an evil league of evil, whatever. She’s Tabitha Galavan, and she sure as hell isn’t gonna go quietly. 

 

Not even with this splinter group from the League. These  _boys_  don’t know Barbara, don’t know what she’s capable of. Tabi will work with them, or at least she’ll let them  _think_  she’s working for them. 

 

She doesn’t know exactly what she’s going to do; she only knows that she has to get Barbara back. 

 

(She doesn’t want to think about the possibility that she can’t get Barbara back. She’ll burn that bridge if she comes to it.  _When_  she comes to it.) 

 

Barbara begged her to join the club, to be the Sirens again, and Tabi had fallen back into old patterns. Maybe that was the problem; is that Tabi expected everything to be the same between them, when everything was different. 

 

It’s on the tip of her tongue to give up and walk away. She can reach out and touch it, her fingers tapping over the surface of the thought. What if…

 

No. Whatever this is, it’s not Barbara. She has to get this weird, bright, harsh light out of Babs, this white glare that radiates corruption and death. How can Barbara not  _see_  it, not feel it? It’s washing everything out, leaving it blank and empty. 

 

Tabi doesn’t want to see Barbara empty. It chills her to her core, the idea of emotionless, blank, Babs, wiped clean of her all joy and frustration and laughter and anger and brilliance. 

 

No matter how much they may fight, how often they may be at odds, Barbara doesn’t deserve that. 

 

So Tabi guesses it’s up to her to save the day, to get her girl back. And then, after that? Well, things will need to change. Maybe break, too. 

 

First, Barbara. First, that evil glowing white light. Then, everything else. 


	12. voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some musing on ed, post 4x19

There are a lot of voices in Ed’s head, always a lot of voices, clamoring to be heard. They flow and ebb in stages, in waves, depending on the day, on his mood, on his mental state. 

 

There’s one, though, quieter than the rest but steadier than the rest as well. 

 

It says, “You do not deserve to be happy.”

 

It says, “You ruin everything.”

 

It says, “Everything you touch turns to ashes; the fields you plow turn fallow.” 

 

It says, “You will die alone, and that is what you deserve.” 

 

No matter how loudly Ed laughs, no matter how many riddles pour out of his mouth, no matter who he stands next to, it’s always there. Even when the other voices go silent, that one remains. 

 

And when Oswald, when that man who infuriates Ed to the point where he wants to scream, that man who Ed can never fully pry himself away from, when Oswald says, “I trust you,” all Ed wants to do is…

 

Stay.

 

But, there’s that voice. “Ruin him,” it says. “Burn it all.” 

 

“ _Destroy him_.” 

 

Ed could do that. Again. 

 

Or, he could destroy himself, instead. 

 

Because as much as he hates Oswald, he hates himself more. As much as he loves Oswald, he…well, he hates himself more. 

 

He could destroy Oswald but, out of the two of them, the person who deserves to be destroyed more is Ed. 

 

So, Ed walks to his destruction, head held high, following in the footsteps of a woman who will never love him as much as she loves helping people. A woman who will never understand him, who will never let him rest in his own head the way Oswald does. 

 

And the voice says, “Yes, this is what you deserve.”

 

The voice says, “Burn every bridge you ever built,” and Ed does. 


	13. bridges burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some oswald feelings, post cory-debacle and post 4x19

Oswald gets back to the mansion, alone. 

 

Empty and echoing and maybe he should have asked Grundy–Butch, whatever–to stay but he doesn’t want anyone around for this. 

 

For the plates he shatters against the walls, for the cups and the vases.

 

For the whole fucking wine bottle, smashed into the fireplace in a plume that thankfully doesn’t set anything on fire–but Oswald really wouldn’t mind a bit of fire. 

 

He screams, the sound tearing at his throat, ripping through his body like an orgasm, only without the catharsis afterwards.

 

He screams his throat raw and red, but he doesn’t feel any better. 

 

_Ed Nygma_. 

 

Edward  _fucking_  Nygma. 

 

Oswald is going to  _rip his fucking lungs out_ , he’s going to  _tear_  Ed’s organs out and shove them up his ass, he’s going to–

 

He can’t believe he ever trusted Ed, can’t believe he didn’t see it earlier. He should have let him die on that fucking pier. It could have been poetic justice, even, with Oswald pulling the trigger and finally, finally freeing himself from–

 

From how much he  _still_  fucking loves that asshole, that absolute goddamn fucking moron. Oswald would just be free.

 

Free, but it sounds like, ‘ _alone_.’ 

 

It sounds like, ‘Ed will never love you,’ echoing through the empty room. ‘Ed will never love you, so let him fucking burn.’ 

 

“Love, for men like us, is a weakness,” Ed had said, and Oswald wants to feed him his fucking words. Wants to make him eat his tongue, to make him regret everything he ever said. 

 

He doesn’t. 

 

If he could kill Ed, he would have done it a long time ago. 

 

If he could kill Ed, he would. But he can’t. 

 

So he screams and he shatters everything he can reach and he vows with everything he has that he won’t let anyone in the way he let Ed in, never again. 

 

He may be alone, but it’s better than the tremors that run through his body, it’s better than being played for a fool once again. 

 

It’s better than the ache in his chest, his heart burning at the loss of something he never really had in the first place. 

 

It’s better. 

 

If he tells himself that enough times, maybe one day he’ll believe it. 


End file.
